My earliest retrospection of my trust in my brother took place in my first month of pre-school. Everything progressed fluently until I found myself in a situation, most four years don’t end up in; I had been left in a tornado, the wet dead leaves that autumn produced whip around my small frame as the wind began to slowly pick up my body under its shear force. As other students made it safely into the barn/ storm shelter while I found myself standing on the front steps of the school. In light of the situation, most pupils searched for their siblings, and my brother did the same. After several minutes his search frantic searching to no avail, he surmised that I must still be in the school. Now the next part of what happens leaves way for artistic creation, depending on who is telling the story. The way my brother tells it, he punched the teacher in order to be able to rush into the storm to come to my rescue. My parents on the other hand tell a different tale on how he brushed by the teachers to prevent me from turning into Dorothy from the Wiz. It is hard to tell if my brother is exaggerating situation or my parents are downplaying the seriousness, but I have come to the conclusion that none of that even matters. All that matters is my brother did not let me down, as I stood in the raging storm I had comfort in know my brother would always protect his baby
My earliest retrospection of my trust in my brother took place in my first month of pre-school. Everything progressed fluently until I found myself in a situation, most four years don’t end up in; I had been left in a tornado, the wet dead leaves that autumn produced whip around my small frame as the wind began to slowly pick up my body under its shear force. As other students made it safely into the barn/ storm shelter while I found myself standing on the front steps of the school. In light of the situation, most pupils searched for their siblings, and my brother did the same. After several minutes his search frantic searching to no avail, he surmised that I must still be in the school. Now the next part of what happens leaves way for artistic creation, depending on who is telling the story. The way my brother tells it, he punched the teacher in order to be able to rush into the storm to come to my rescue. My parents on the other hand tell a different tale on how he brushed by the teachers to prevent me from turning into Dorothy from the Wiz. It is hard to tell if my brother is exaggerating situation or my parents are downplaying the seriousness, but I have come to the conclusion that none of that even matters. All that matters is my brother did not let me down, as I stood in the raging storm I had comfort in know my brother would always protect his baby